Tag Archives: Martin

American Apparel – A Study in Life Without Organs

the_tap_pantyEver notice how the American Apparel store looks like a Unicorn stumbled in, drunk and shot a hot stream of uninterrupted Unicorn pee onto every visible surface?

This could be the reason why I can never resist popping in and rummaging through their technicolour racks – and may well also be the legitimate reason for absolutely no smiles, or even a hint of pleasure on the faces of its snake-hipped employees?

Or is it the fact that they just really fancy a big sandwich, since oxygen just isn’t enough to sustain them anymore?

This might not be fair, of course, since many many of the ‘trendy’ stores, in every city in the world comprise a team of poe-faced pre-pubescent but really, it just seems so more apparent here.

It has to be something to do with the contrast between the candy-coloured hoodies and the pale, hungry looking sales girls.

I guess it’s hard to have to deal with the fatties coming in with the intention of buying garments that were designed for Swedish runway models.

And it must be just awful to have to calculate the cost of the items that don’t round up to a neat $42 but how can you be in such a Carebear-friendly environment and still look that miserable?

I walk past the window and get excited. Not that any of the items were designed for my arse but seriously, for just that split second, it feels as though anything at all is possible.

I could buy that Jennifer-Beals-in-Flashdance-esque sweatshirt in Muppet skin pink and all will be right with the world.

American Ap-a-rell.

American Appa-ral?

On a tangent: where do you girls store your inner organs anyway? I’d love to know. Sure, you’re probably mere months from your sixteen candles, but I never looked like that at that age. When did girls start getting so whippet-like?

Do you just run on sheer youth?

Still, you know what, I won’t boycott the store. I’m not anti-skinny/beautiful/youthful and I’m not insecure about myself just because I am all curve.

We are all beautiful in our different ways and I can see a whole list of pros in being either way.

And they do have a scarf that has piano keys on it.

Sold to the lady at the front with hips!


Jog On, Ladies

Women’s jogging groups. Really what on earth is the point in that, if not just to bug the living bejesus out of me? I can’t begin to imagine.

Girls don’t jog in England. They sit on couches eating deep-fried Mars bars belching out God Save the Queen like all good ladettes.

They have far better things to do with their time. Like get pregnant and start fights on the top deck of buses.

They do not swarth their frames in techno-lycra and pound the sidewalks, tutting loudly if you dare to walk along one.

The cunty jogging fiends expect pedestrians to part like waves for them as they thunder through, don’t you mere mortals realise that they have somewhere really important to be?

Oh, that’s right. They don’t. They do this for their own pleasure.

I think I might actually buy it if they really did look like they were having fun. But all these perfect non-fat latte girls with their Coach handbags just look so miserable. They toss their 300 haircuts and they look like they want to die.

I’d rather have my bottom and the ability to take the piss out of myself anyday.

Give me by pot belly and a lifetime of hilarity please. I wouldn’t swap these crow’s feet for the world and you can keep your perfectly manicured hands off my laughter lines, thankyouverymuch.

I think I have to get out of Vancouver and stop doing the job I do before the pleasantly cynical old lady that lives in the basement suite of my soul gets ideas above her station and starts demanding more.

So ladies, go for it. Next time I’m selfishly blocking a pavement with my damn curvy arse, feel free to elbow me out the way.

I shan’t be following you. I’m going my way.

Jog on.


facebooked_mom-1Apparently, there are rules in this life.  Rules we are supposed to adhere to in order to lead a full and fluffy existence.

We’re not supposed to eat the yellow snow, for instance, for fear of contaminating our temple-like bodies with something icky.

Thank you notes are important after you have been gifted, particularly by a family member you see but once a year and who presents you with the worst fucking tat known to man.  Not sure if this is a rule but it sort of is, so go with it.

There are relationship rules, friendship rules, work rules – boundaries, processes, bundles and bundles of scratchy red tape to get caught up in.

Life is peppered with so many ‘oooh don’t’s that it is sometimes possible to forget what living is actually all about: flipping the bird at convention and leaping before you look.

Anyway.  I digress.

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We’re back!

Well, well, well.

Good day to you.  And a very Happy New Year, too.

Happy belated Valentine’s day and a soon-to-be very Merry Easter.

It’s been a while. 

Kicking my feet, I won’t lie to you, has been kind of cool.

Not writing a word for this joint venture has felt good in the sense that we’ve been out there, forming real-life relationships, fucking them up, building them back up again – essentially just being alive.

Ahhhhh, can you smell that?  That’s life, that is.

So what have I learned in the short time I’ve been wandering aimlessly away from my blogging responsibilities?

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Country Roads, Take Me Home

Recently, my presence was requested in the great vast land of Saskatchewan. While I was indeed born there, I was in fact raised in Alberta, but have always harbored a strong loyalty to the hardest to spell, but easiest to draw, province in this country.

Perhaps, most logically, and simply, it’s because a large portion of my family (on my mother’s side) calls Saskatchewan home. They inhabit the bustling metropolis of Saskatoon, the charming hamlet of Outlook, and all manner of farmland in between.

Now, Sasktchamewan is not without its advantages. Removed almost completely from the civilised world, one can spend a weekend there, and feel as though they’ve been on a cruise, or perhaps a deserted island for weeks. Months even. And by that I mean, you’re stuck somewhere with virtually no contact to the outside world.

I jest.

I actually find the wide open spaces to be soothing. One can feel claustrophobic when constantly surrounded by mountains and ocean. It’s tiring, really. A change in scenery is a welcome shift to my overly urban existence.

While there, I had the great fortune to see the cinematic treat, Body of Lies, starring everyone’s favorite resurrected heart throb, Leo DiCaprio. Although, I’m sorry to have to report, it was nothing to write home about. Sort of plods along as well as you can expect. Not badly made, just not mind-blowing in any way.

I also dusted off my Scrabble skills and managed to wipe the floor with my opponents. Boo-yah-shuckaluckah.

So, movies, as Martin eloquently pointed out, are becoming “good” again. It is, after all, that time of the year I affectionately refer to as “Oscar Bait Season”.

Examples: The Soloist, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, Australia, Miracle at St. Anna, Defiance, etc.

I believe The Duchess was an early entry, but I fear it will merely be awarded for costumes. Perhaps only nominated.

In other news, I am going to spend the month of November attempting to write a novel. My favorite film critic, Filthy, does it every year, and this is my year, I’ve decided.

You can track my progress at http://www.nanowrimo.org/eng/user/418915 and please, don’t hesitate to sign up yourself. It’s a wonderful challenge, and one I hope to achieve. Scratch that, WILL achieve.

Happy Writing!

Righteous Kill in Bangkok Dangerous Ghost Town

Of late I have truly neglected one area of my life that brings more joy that I can ever express, in words or even via the medium of Dance.

Going to watch shit movies and slagging them off loudly to whoever has the pleasure of sitting next to me throughout.

Not since Death Race have I had so much fun of this nature.

And believe me, there have been many missed opportunities of late.

Sure, Ghost Town served in an crap-movie emergency, but it feels wrong to criticise Ricky Gervais when he’s so bloody English (read: funny) in an otherwise white-washed American (read: politically correct) movie.

And there are flashes of that gimpish little smile he does, right before he cracks up in some scenes, which make me love him every time – so I can’t be mad at him and thus can’t conceive of sitting there shouting at the screen, which is what I like to do.

What I should of done is got to the cinema when I intended to see Bangkok Dangerous, whose title alone suggests many opportunities to get smart-arsed at the sheer cheek of it.

But, alas, Nicholas Cage was destined to plod on (as a ‘deadly assassin’ with bad hair, in Bangkok, funnily enough) without my input and genuine feedback on his performance, which leads me to think, going off on a tangent slightly: If there’s nobody around to see a Nicholas Cage movie, does he still overact?

In other words, if there’s a Nic Cage picture showing to an empty theatre do you think he keeps going, or does he just give up on-screen and go sit in an armchair with the paper?

(Theory also goes for Keanu Reeves, though how would you tell the difference?)

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Shame-Faced and Fancy Free

It is with some shame that I admit we have neglected this blog for some time now.

Anybody would think we had each gone out and gotten a life, thus leaving little time to sit in darkened rooms, tip-tapping out sarcastic film reviews on our keyboards and dreaming of a day when we will one day see a real-life naked woman…

(That’s the stereo-type, non?)

But I guess it’s kind of true.  For Lightle anyway.

My neglect stems from a terminal disease known as Bone Bastard Idol-ness or, Procrastinatia.

I simply haven’t been bothered.

And it hasn’t just been this little embryonic blog that has suffered.  All creative projects have slipped between the cracks of inertia, and I’ve barely lifted a finger towards anything besides the remote control or a pint of beer.

No more.

I’ve been attending a writing course for the past three weeks and as a fully paid-up member of the Community College, I feel I am now more qualified to do this shit.

I’m back, fact fans, and ringing a bell.

I’m sure Lightle will join me, just as soon as she stops having so much fun out there in the real world.

Real post to follow shortly.

Honest, G’uv.